Software Engineer & Activist

This Love

This is a monologue/poem, I like to call it a “monopoem”. It’s mean to be recited by a woman speaking with a Jamaican accent. Imagine that she has bright colorful clothing, and is skipping through the streets (kinda like Beyonce’s Hold Up Video).

Love is like a Julie mango. Rich with sweetness but not just any type ah sweetness. It distinct. It different. It taste so damn good dat every single time I bite into one it tastes just as amazing as di first Julie mango I ever had.

Love is like having a whole tree a dem inna di backyard and it bear suh much mango mi hafi share

Nuh matta how many people come to pick off di tree, there’s more than enough fi everybody

I’ve neva known this type ah love before. It just walked inna mi life one day and smack me over di head. Me never see it coming but I’m so happy it came (looks directly at the camera). I’m so happy YOU came.

You’ve taught me how to identify love, real love, di type of love that I want, or at least—di type of love that I deserve.

Love is knowing that my presence is missed without you having to say it. But you say it anyways.

It is not seeing you for a whole week cus you and I both busy but I’m so fulfilled with my life and my work that I don’t mind. I feel free. I feel encouraged to focus on myself, on my goals, and then find you when I’m ready.

Love is knowing that you love my body. Not because it’ “perfect” but because it’s MINE. All a dis. . . alllllllll a dis. . . is miiine and you love this shit. My small titties. My pudge. You loooveeee this shit!

Love is not being able to stay mad at you for long cus I know dat your flaws do not compare to your magic.

Yeah yuh phone stay dead cus you be forgetting your charger at my house. Dat shit is so annoying. And yeah sometimes you ain’t got no money. And. . . yuh know what? I have to get up super early fah work cus I’m a teacher and you neva wake up in a di morning to make me coffee.

But none of dat compares to your magic.

Love is yearning for yuh wisdom even if it’s critical of me. Even if it means being called out on di ridiculous shit I never want to admit to myself. Like the fact that I like to be right or that sometimes I’m combative when it’s not necessary. Sorry. Yuh always there to calm me down when mi ready fi go off pon somebody, when mi eyes start glaze ova like me gwan tun into di hulk —you swoop in wit yuh logic and yuh wisdom. Yuh know how many lives you’ve saved?

Love forgets where di phone is. Forgets about Facebook and text messages. Why would I scroll through Instagram when I can scroll through your mind, down your thighs, and comment on your lower status?

Love don’t waste no time thinking bout what’s missing or what else is out there that I haven’t had yet.

This love? Our love. . .

Is you standing by my side knowing that I’m still in love with my last partner, that my heart is wounded, far from healed and riddled with insecurities. . . but you never complain when I need to talk about it. . . You just listen.

Our love is that “knowing I’m past the puppy love and I still can’t get enough of you, wanna always be around you” love.

That love that leaves me certain that no matter what happens between you and I, I am lovable, I am beautiful, I am desirable, and I don’t need anyone including you to validate me.